Contagion
by annaliesegrace
Summary: Joan gets sick, Holmes becomes her caretaker. Holmes/Watson friendship.


Title: Contagion

Author: Annaliesegrace

Summary: Joan gets sick, Holmes is there to help.

AN: As requested by the lovely forensiphile. I hope it's what you wanted. To be honest I wasn't sure I could get nearly 5k words from a sick!fic, but I guess you never can tell.

I almost titled this "Unwell", which would have been perfect, but then I realized I can never use the "Un" words again without getting them mixed up with my H50 series. So you get…Contagion. Which sound far more dire than the actual story is.

Please review, it inspires me to write more!

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Everything hurt. Literally every part of Joan Watson's body ached and there was a familiar chill that ran through her even as she pulled her covers closer to her body.

She knew what it was: the flu.

The day before when the runny nose and cough had started, she assumed it to be a cold and had gone to bed early despite Sherlock's insistence she stay up to help him with one of his experiments.

But waking now she knew it had gotten much, much worse overnight. Lying quietly in her room she inventoried the symptoms. The previous day's runny nose and cough were now accompanied by a wicked sore throat, chills and what felt like a fever. The thermometer was in the bathroom but she was too damn tired to get up and find it. Thankfully there was no nausea or vomiting. Yet.

Pulling the blankets closer while rolling onto her side toward the windows, she had resigned herself to spending the day in bed when the door was flung open and her name was practically bellowed into the room.

And now her head hurt. Awesome.

Responding was not an option; she was too tired to deal with him today.

There was silence then tentative footsteps and a much quieter, "Watson?" as he walked around the bed.

"What?" she mumbled as he came into her eyesight.

"It is half past eleven, Watson. Late even by your…" he stopped abruptly, staring at her, cataloguing her. "Are you feeling unwell?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I am feeling unwell."

Her eyes followed as he came to kneel next to her bedside, reaching out one hand to gently touch her forehead. "Very warm, Watson."

"I knew that."

Suddenly he stood and disappeared and for a half a second Watson thought maybe he was going to leave her in peace. And then he reappeared, the erstwhile thermometer in hand. He shook the old school mercury-in-glass thermometer, ensuring the mercury was at the appropriate level before handing it to her so she could place it under her tongue.

There was a temporal thermometer somewhere but it didn't seem worth the effort to have him go find it.

After two minutes, he pulled it out of her mouth and frowned.

"I will call the doctor."

"Wait, what is it? My temperature." She croaked out.

"One hundred and two point two."

"Don't bother calling a doctor, its fine," she said and was hit with a small coughing fit.

"It is not fine Watson. Fevers in adults over one hundred and two should be looked at."

She looked at him a long moment before speaking slowly, her sore throat was getting worse. "Fevers over a hundred and three should be looked at. It's the flu. I'll be fine…no reason to expose…anyone else."

Sherlock looked at the thermometer and then her again before obviously deciding to go along with her and disappeared again out of the door.

_Finally, peace._

She'd managed to doze off for a bit when rustling around at her feet had her eyes opening again.

Momentarily confused she watched as Sherlock set another blanket at the foot of the bed before setting about rearranging her night table.

Before she could get a word out, he had placed a box of Kleenex, a bottle of water and one of Motrin, along with several books on the table neatly and within easy reach. Then he went back to the foot of the bed before returning with a trash can.

The trash can went on the floor near her head and then he surveyed his handiwork with a grim look. He seemed satisfied but then reached over and moved her cell phone to the top of the pile of books. Now satisfied he kneeled again, looking over her carefully.

"According to your CDC the flu vaccine, which we both received of course, was only twenty three percent effective this year. Taking into consideration the number of people we come into contact with, one of us becoming ill was…inevitable." He paused and reached out again, touching her forehead. "You need rest, Watson. I will refrain from making noise, if you require my assistance simply text. I will not leave the brownstone unless strictly necessary."

He stood to leave but she stopped him.

"Sherlock. You don't need to stay in the brownstone; I can take care of myself." The series of sneezes and cough that followed contradicted her words. He would go insane trapped here with her.

"And yet, I shall remain. Goodnight, Watson."

With that he ensured all the drapes were closed on the windows before walking out, closing the door only about halfway as he left.

Her eyes slipped closed and Watson fell into sleep again.

When she woke again the sun was setting and the aches in her body worse.

With effort she pushed herself to sitting, checking the time on her cell phone. Seven thirty. Sniffling she blew her nose and tossed the tissue in to the garbage, which was already nearly half full. When had that happened? She had a vague memory of blowing her nose maybe once or twice through the night, not however many times it took to use that many Kleenex. Lovely.

Suddenly she was worried and grabbed the thermometer. Which had moved. When Sherlock had left earlier it had been next to the bottle of water – she was sure, now it was on top of the books, closer to her. Had she done that?

Had he?

A little put off by not remembering she put the glass under her tongue and silently counted two minutes out.

Removing it she was dismayed to see it had inched higher by point two. Not good.

"Ah, you're awake." His voice came from the doorway and he entered. "And you've checked your temperature."

He looked at her expectantly, she relayed the information and the grim expression returned to his face. "Watson…"

"Three Motrin, please." God dammit her throat hurt, she had never felt so miserable. Despite her years working in the hospital Joan had never had the pleasure of getting the flu. Plenty of colds had hit her but nothing like this. It was truly awful, there was not a part of her body that didn't hurt.

Nodding Sherlock complied, handing her the pills and now-open water. After taking the pills and drinking some of the water she started coughing hard, nearly choking.

Sherlock was at her side instantly, his hand on her back, rubbing soothing circles over her now sweat-slicked t-shirt. He sat perched on the edge of the bed, hand on her until the coughing stopped.

Then she realized how close he was to her and tried to pull away. "Sherlock, get away from me unless you want to be next."

He seemed non-pulsed. "No fear, Watson, I am taking precautions to ensure my health. It would not due for me to become ill as well. Assuming I am not already."

Then he stood next to the bed, staring at her. "Off to sleep with you, then."

"I just woke up," she protested half heartedly.

Watson slipped back down into bed, surprised when he leaned over and ensured the covers were sufficiently tucked around her. As he left she realized he had placed a large pump container of hand sanitizer on her dresser by the door, clearly he was using it as he came in and out of the room.

She grinned and fell back to sleep again.

To say he was concerned was an understatement. So after tucking her in Holmes descended to the kitchen, making a call as he went. It didn't take long to apprise the Captain of his partner's illness and their unavailability; he was not leaving until she was well.

After making his tea, Sherlock sat at the large kitchen table, contemplating. After all these years it was his turn to take care of his partner. He frowned. Partner didn't seem to do the nature of their relationship justice. He hadn't lied to Bella, he loved Watson, but in a way he hadn't felt before. His love of his mother was simply that, one of a parent, the love he felt with Irene – _Moriarity _–was one of a romantic partner, lovers really.

But his love for Watson went deeper than what he felt for either of the other women in his life. It was puzzling to him, really. He still believed love was a social construct and yet…Watson continued to evoke feelings in him that he could only ascribe to love. She was his everything. At least his idiot brother had gotten one thing right, she was the person he cared most about in the world. As much as he was capable of caring for others, anyway.

So her current condition had him concerned, concerned for the hundred ways he knew the flu could get very serious. Seizures, heart failure, brain damage due to fever highest on the list. Absently he started tapping the table with his fingers, a sure sign of anxiety.

Making a quick decision he swallowed the last of the tea and headed back up the stairs.

When she woke it was still dark, and the world was very fuzzy but Watson would have sworn she saw Sherlock slumped in a chair near the windows. Racked with another coughing fit her thought was proven accurate when the figure in the corner stood and approached her, helping her sit up to ease the pain in her chest.

She felt awful, everything continued to ache, she could barely breathe from the congestion and now the coughing was causing pain in her side and chest. If she kept it up a cracked rib wasn't outside the realm of possibility.

A sudden vile sensation in her stomach turned bad to worse and she called his name into the dark. Somehow he knew what she needed and an emesis basin (she'd ask later why he even had one) appeared mere seconds before she threw up the little water she had managed to get down with the pills, along with one of the Motrin.

_Great, _she thought. _Vomiting and now only 400 mg of Motrin on board. _

It was no wonder it felt like she had been hit by a truck. A very large one.

The vomiting had sapped whatever strength she might have had left and she slumped back aimlessly, landing partly on Sherlock who had sat behind her on the bed, her head resting on his chest under his chin.

He tensed and she instantly realized the position she had accidently put him in and tried to pull away; but one of his hands lightly grasped her upper arm, guiding her back gently to him.

"You shouldn't be…close," she mumbled, exhausted.

"I do not mind. Rest." And he didn't mind, not one bit. Because now he had added asphyxiation and dehydration to the list of things that could happen to her and the only way to ease his anxiety was to keep a constant eye on her.

As her breathing evened out some, he took the pink-ish kidney shaped basin from her and set it on the table, he would deal with it later, right now he was surprisingly comfortable.

The nausea roiled in her stomach again, waking her from sleep. Jesus, all she wanted to do was sleep, but she couldn't for more than a few hours at a time without being woken up to blow her nose, cough or just from the aches.

With surprising speed she sat up in bed, the now-clean basin thrust under her as she threw up again, this time very little since she hadn't managed to get down more than a few sips of water since the last time. The retching continued for several minutes, during which Sherlock held her hair back from her face, preventing a mess.

When she was done and leaning back against her pillows, eyes closed, Watson felt the temporal thermometer pass over her forehead and heard Sherlock sigh.

"One hundred and three even, Watson. Any higher and we need to consider a trip to the doctor."

She merely nodded and grabbed the water, taking a few small sips to rid her mouth of the taste of vomit.

Still holding the bottle she started to doze off again, only barely aware of him pulling the water out of her hands.

_Her mother was brushing her hair, slowly, deliberately. Joan loved it when she did this, her small deft fingers working out the knots and smoothing flyaway strands. _

_When the brushing stopped, Joan all but frowned until fingers dug their way into the hair near the nape of her neck, moving in a distinct, familiar pattern. _

Waking next she was disoriented, the remains of the dream sticking to her, mixing with reality. Then her stomach rolled again and tears sprung to her eyes.

_Not again._

The basin was placed in her lap, but this time nothing came up, though her stomach clenched painfully.

"I sincerely doubt there is anything left in your stomach to vomit," Sherlock said from his perch on the bed by her hip.

Then she realized her hair hadn't draped down when she'd bent over, requiring his assistance. Instead it was tightly braided - it hadn't been a dream and she touched dark hair, looking up at Sherlock as she did.

"You braided my hair." It was a statement, not a question, with a little bit of awe in it.

For a second she thought he looked insecure but Sherlock quickly schooled his features back to neutral. "Yes, well…given the frequency of your vomiting and the amount of sweat the fever is producing I thought it more hygienic this way."

"Thank you."

He merely nodded and stood. "I think its best we change the sheets." He eyed her. "And possibly your pajamas."

Watson looked down at herself, it was clear she had been sweating furiously as the fever had tried to rid her body of the virus. She was just…gross. For a second Watson debated taking a shower but knew there was no way she could stand long enough and decided it wouldn't be worth it until the fever broke, anyway.

Wordlessly, Sherlock turned to her dresser and pulled out a new pair of cotton pants and t-shirt. "Do you think you can manage to change?"

Considering the other option was to have him help her she nodded and pushed the covers off. An instant chill seeped into her body.

"I will go and find fresh sheets for the bed, once you are done sit in the chair and I will change the bed."

She wanted to protest, she wasn't a child, but she simply didn't have the energy and watched him leave the room.

Getting changed took far longer than she expected but she was moving at about half speed and the act of merely raising her arms exhausted her. Once in new clothes, however, she felt better and curled into the chair, pulling the unused blanket Sherlock had placed at the end of the bed over her body.

She was thirsty, really, really thirsty but the idea of drinking and then throwing it up was unappealing at best. Then she frowned. It had been nearly forty eight hours since onset and she could only remember going to the bathroom once. Pulling her hands out from under the blanket she gently pinched the skin of her forearm - it very slowly returned to form.

Dehydration.

Which could quickly spiral and require a trip to the hospital. She really, really didn't want to end up in the hospital; it was much more comfortable here, with Sherlock.

Just then he knocked on the door. "Decent, Watson?"

"Yes," she croaked out.

He entered and she laughed – on his hands were cleaning gloves that went clear up to his elbow, the fresh linens held in one hand.

"I'm glad my attempts at not becoming ill amuse you, Watson."

"Sorry, it's just…nevermind." But the smile remained on her face as he carefully balled up the sweat-soaked sheets and replaced them with fresh ones.

Once done, he stripped off the gloves and helped her back into the bed, his eyes carefully trained on her.

"You are becoming dehydrated." It was said so quietly she nearly didn't hear him.

"Yes."

"That won't do," he mumbled and pulled the covers back up over her, handing her the water bottle which while nearly gone wasn't enough.

She took several slow sips, and three more Motrin with it, hoping the whole time she wouldn't be seeing the water (or pills) again.

"Feeling any better?" he asked as she placed the bottle back on the table.

"Not really."

"To be expected, the duration of the flu can vary between a few days and a week. Given your symptoms you appear to have a rather…virulent strain. I would expect you to be ill for several more days."

"Who's the doctor here?" she asked with a smile, he grimaced.

"Not a laughing matter, Watson."

"I know…" she said coughing.

Again the thermometer was swiped across her forehead; he seemed to have an unnatural obsession with her fever.

"One hundred two point five. Marginal improvement." Setting down the thermometer he confirmed she was comfortable. "Back to sleep."

Part of her was tired of constantly sleeping, but the other part was just…tired. And yet, she couldn't seem to sleep, the aches were bad enough that now they were keeping her awake.

So she lay on her side, staring at Sherlock who was sitting quietly in the chair by the windows (which he had sprayed with Lysol before sitting in), seemingly lost in thought.

"It's making you crazy," she said quietly.

"What is?" he asked in an equally low tone.

"Just...sitting there. Go, I'm fine."

"I am performing mental exercises while "sitting here". I am certainly not going crazy."

"It's ok, Sherlock," she coughed again. "You don't need to babysit me."

"This is not…babysitting. I am concerned for your welfare. Now…stop talking and sleep."

"I can't, everything hurts. Tell me a story." Confident he would comply, she closed her eyes.

"A…story?"

"Wait." Her eyes snapped open. "A happy story. Tell me about your Mom, you don't speak of her often."

His expression softened. "A happy story about my Mother. Alright, Watson…just for you."

Then he started to spin a tale about a trip to the zoo where it had been just himself and his mother and she started to drift off as they got to the part where Sherlock had tried to correct a docent near the gorilla exhibit.

Waking next she felt no better, and with her stomach rolling again so she swiftly grabbed the basin from her bedside before throwing up. To her relief the Motrin had stayed down but the water had not. And now she felt dizzy on top of everything else. Miserable, she was utterly miserable.

Looking around she realized it was late morning, and Sherlock was gone. A small part of her was disappointed, she had gotten used to him being there.

Sherlock was proving to be a very good caretaker. It surprised her a little, while he had been thoughtful toward her in the past it was typically small moments here and there, never for an extended period.

Just as she was debating texting him, Sherlock appeared in the door, looking apprehensive.

"What's wrong?"

"I have done something that is for your benefit, though I am not sure how it will be received."

Before she could even ask another man appeared in the doorway. Tall and older with greying hair he wore a suit and had a look about him that she recognized. A doctor.

"Sherlock," she sighed.

"Your symptoms are not improving, Watson. Your fever spiked last night to one hundred and three point five." Her eyes widened, that was awfully high. "And you still have been unable to keep fluids down. I asked Doctor Halsey to come by, if for nothing else than to treat your dehydration."

She looked at him but couldn't be angry; he was clearly concerned for her. So she nodded and Doctor Halsey approached, helping her into a sitting position before quickly giving her a cursory exam, including the ever present temperature check. It had come down nearly a full degree from Sherlock's middle of the night check.

"Well your assessment of the flu is accurate. Nasty case. I don't hear anything in your lungs yet, so it hasn't moved down. The dehydration is a cause for concern, however, how long have you been ill?" His tone was friendly, his eyes kind, she liked him.

"Three days," Sherlock responded quickly.

"Fever for three days as well?"

"Yes." She responded this time.

"And when was your last dose of Motrin?"

"I don't…"

"Approximately 6 hours ago," Sherlock quickly supplied while rocking back on his heels, hands twitching at his sides.

"Ok," he said and reached into the black bag he had been carrying. "Let's take care of the dehydration. If we can get your stomach to settle I will get you a script for Tamiflu."

She was surprised when he produced an IV bag filled with saline along with an extension line and needle. In no time the bag was hung by a nail on the wall above her bed and the needle placed in her hand, covered with gauze.

He then held up a filled syringe. "Anti-nausea medication. Give it about an hour and try to eat something…toast, broth, anything bland. Keep the Motrin going every six hours if you can." The medication was then pushed through the port in the extension line.

"Your friend here tells me you are a doctor."

She chose not to correct to _was _and nodded.

"Then you know to remove the IV when the bag has about 100 mils left?"

"Yes, of course."

"I will call tomorrow and get an update on your condition and we can decide what to do next, alright?"

Again she nodded…and sneezed violently into the crook of her arm. "Thank you, doctor."

"You're very welcome. Call if you need anything before tomorrow."

Sherlock had remained in the doorway the entire time, only moving when Doctor Halsey was done to show him out of the brownstone.

When he returned nearly thirty minutes later she was trying to get comfortable in the bed with the new IV line impeding her progress. Her body didn't just ache from the flu anymore, lying mostly prone for the better part of three days was causing stiffness in her muscles as well.

"You are not upset about the doctor?" he asked almost nervously from the foot of her bed.

"No, Sherlock," she said and coughed again. For a second there she had almost felt better. "And why am I not surprised you have a doctor on call?"

"I assisted the good doctor with a matter involving his daughter who had gotten herself in significant trouble. He was…indebted to me. I called in the favor."

"Glad you did," she said and looked down at the IV in her hand. Already the nausea was starting to lift. "Thank you."

"Doctors do tend to make the worst patients, or…in this case not realize when they need a doctor." He noted and moved toward the side of the bed. "Would you like to try and eat? It has been over 2 days now."

She considered it and looked up at the bag, given the drip rate it should be done in a little over an hour and she could attempt sleep again. In the meantime food sounded good. "Yes, please."

Thirty minutes later she had finished half a bowl of chicken broth, and her stomach was showing no signs of returning the meal.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she said set the spoon down on the tray Sherlock had brought the food on. Already she was tired again, at least she had managed to not sneeze or cough for the duration of the meal. Progress. "For everything."

"Anything for you, Watson. You know that."

The words hung in the air between them. It was an admission he rarely made – one that expressed how deep his feelings for her went. It was one she knew to be true and she gave him a soft smile.

He cleared his throat and stood, picking up the tray. "If you are feeling better tomorrow, perhaps a trip to the roof would be beneficial. Some sunlight and fresh air certainly would not hurt."

"I'd like that. Lying in this bed is making me ache."

"Indeed."

Upon returning from taking care of her dishes, Sherlock helped her remove the IV. Maybe it was psychosomatic but she was already feeling a little better, she would have sworn the fever was lower but there was no chance she was having Sherlock check it again and feeding his obsessiveness about it.

She slumped back into the bed, while Sherlock sat in the chair again, one of the books he'd brought for her in his hands. Eventually she fell back to sleep.

Waking on the fourth day was a far more pleasant experience than the previous three. The congestion that had plagued her was significantly better, and there was no nausea as she sat up slowly. Even better, the fever had seemed to break during the night. Though her throat still hurt.

Stretching she noted Sherlock now sleeping in the chair, his head cradled into the curve of the wingback portion.

Feeling confident (and desperately wanting to get out of bed) Watson pushed the blankets off and sat up mostly steadily. Pleased with the progress she pushed herself to standing, only wobbling a little as she did. Glancing at her snoozing partner Watson made a decision and moved slowly to the bathroom.

She managed a quick shower (and felt a little bad for undoing the braid Sherlock had done for her, but her hair needed a wash) and was brushing her teeth when her name was called from the bedroom in a tone that was less than pleased. As she spit into the sink he appeared in the doorway, a frown on his face.

"Watson, what are you doing?"

"Brushing my teeth."

"And you have showered."

"Yes."

"Unsupervised."

"As I usually do, yes."

His eyes narrowed at her and she stood still while he took her in. "Feeling better, I take it."

"Yes, much. The fever broke last night."

He grunted and approached, his hand finding its way to her forehead. "Indeed."

"Satisfied?" she asked and dropped her toothbrush into its holder next to his.

"I suppose. Back to bed."

Her face fell slightly. "Let's go to the roof. Sunshine remember?"

"I do." Then he frowned at her and pointed to the toilet - confused she complied, sitting on the closed lid.

To her great surprise he moved into the corner, grasped the mostly dry strands of her hair and once again braided them with an unexpected deftness. Even though he kept as far back from her as possible there was still an odd sense of intimacy as he worked. Once done, he tied off the braid and stepped around to stand in front of her.

"I didn't know you did hair," she joked and he smiled just barely but otherwise didn't acknowledge what he'd done.

"To the roof."

This was much better, sitting outside, curled into a chaise lounge with her red sweater wrapped around her upper body, a blanket covering her legs. The temperature was in the mid-sixties and the sun was out in full force but there was still a distinctly winter chill to the air.

They'd been staring out onto the city in silence for the better part of an hour.

Finally she spoke. "Thank you…for taking care of me these last few days. I know it wasn't how you wanted to spend the time."

He looked over from his chair, which was perched rather close to hers.

"It is no matter, Watson; you have done far more for me in the past. I can think of a half dozen examples off the top of my head."

Before he could start listing them, she reached out one hand and placed it on his, her fingers gently curling around his. As expected he stiffened a little before relaxing and even giving her a small smile.

"Once you are well there is much to catch up on even if Captain Gregson does not require our services."

"I'm sure," she muttered and looked back over the city, her hand still covering his.

END

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Psst...review. You know you want too...


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